I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled--
Some thousands--on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.
Emily Dickinson saw clearly the shortcomings of a world in which grief, pain, and suffering continued to hold sway, no matter how educated and advanced mankind was. The 20 century with its wars and man-made famines, and millions killed by violence has proved her correct. She reads contemporary 130 years after her death because she was so complexly simple in her form, and modern in her grasp of pain, suffering, and evil.
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